A Perished Sun
by The DayDreaming
Summary: "You don't smile like you used to. I kinda miss it." As of late, the world was beginning to feel like the end of a long, tiring race, and he a runner in the dust. He would die alone. Heroes had no happy endings left at the finish line./Then Prussia came.
1. Where are We?

**A Perished Sun**

By: The DayDreaming

**Warnings**: Language. Tony is in here, so if you can't handle a little bad language, you seriously need to grow a spine.

**Disclaimer**: I do not claim to own any properties herein except for story concept. All characters belong to their respective owner. I'm just a lowly fanfiction writer enthralled with Hetalia.

_This chapter has not been beta'd or checked for mistakes. If you feel there are any glaring errors besides my poor vocabulary and grammar, feel free to point it out and I'll do my best to assuage the situation._

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If** I can stop one heart from breaking,

**I** shall not live in vain;

**If** I can ease one life the aching,

**Or** cool one pain,

**Or** help one fainting robin

**Unto** his nest again,

**I** shall not live in vain.

_-Emily Dickinson _

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Chapter 1**: Where are We?

It was a novel idea at the time, is all Prussia can remember.

Life had never been as simple as when he could just hop on a plane and fly around the world for his benefit, and his alone. In all respects, he shouldn't have; as his brother likes to refer to him, he is an exemplified form of indiscriminate chaos, tied to nowhere and nothing yet leaving everything touched in his wake. Gilbert is of the opinion that it makes him sound like a sort of very morbid poetry, if poetry weren't for pansies (which he most certainly was too awesome to be).

Yet, in the swampy waters of a dozen foreign affair and security officials, he manages to stride away with a mere flash of his ID card and a jaunty smirk sharp enough to make even stubborn American airport guards think twice before trying to stop him. All in all, Germany is going to be getting a very unpleasant wake-up call, but Prussia can't find it in himself to really care one way or the other.

And yet, all this thinking is stalling. Dappled in the luminous glow of a late, summer afternoon under vibrant green maple trees, he stands at the foot of the house like an out of place statue, a lawn ornament bought on whim with no real place to be put, and so is pushed aside. Not that he was even placing himself within the same realm as an albino lawn gnome (more along the lines of a very awesome, brawny man statue that isn't ashamed of the fact that his junk is being used as a water fountain for yard décor).

Even knowing that there's no reason to be hesitating (not that he was really _hesitating_, per se, just admiring the very fine details of the grain-work on the ancient wooden door before him, very _awesome _grain-work by his experienced eye), he still can't quite bring himself to knock. This is where the afterthought of his entire journey over to the United States of America being a very novel idea sets in; as with all 'novel' ideas, it's entirely off-base and unworkable within the realms of reality, but really, it's fucking _Prussia_ who thought of it, so he can damn well execute it, too.

Before his mind can run in another circle, he knocks on the door, two quick but loud taps that reverberate down what is presumably a foyer (he won't acknowledge the decorated doorbell off to his left, which he catches sight of only after he knocks, he _won't_, he's too awesome for doorbells). The door opens just a few seconds afterwards, swinging inward with a creak that only comes with age and non-use; Gilbert steps in and tries to catch sight of the doorman, dim lighting of what is indeed a foyer straining his eyes in the transition between the iridescent gleam of summer and the omnipresent dusk of America's interior home. There doesn't appear to be anyone there to greet him, and so he takes another step forward before the resounding bang of the door slamming shut behind him stops him in his tracks.

With reflexes he hadn't used in decades (maybe a century, not that he wasn't awesome enough to still have his skills), he spins around and manages to snag a particularly prominent hat off a hook on the wall and sling it threateningly at the small, obscure form left in the wake of the sealed entryway. It lands atop the crest of a perfectly rounded dome, and with a curse is torn off and thrown back at Prussia, who ducks, only to find it isn't aimed at him at all but behind, where the hook it was previously hung upon sits.

With a clap, the light in the foyer comes on (and isn't it just like America to install something as gimmicky as clap-on lights?), gently filtered through the tines and panes of a small chandelier. In the sudden upheaval, Gilbert distinguishes his opponent as perhaps the very epitome of all American-crack-idea UFO sightings, a diminutive grey creature with a large, ovoid head and sudden, tapering chin. Its red eyes, held in contrast to the sleek, silver of its skin, regard him with the kind of animosity reserved only for the most unpleasant of objects, almost as if saying he doesn't deserve to be within its mere presence. It's really sort of awesome, is all he can speculate before the alien begins to speak.

"Fucking kraut," it grouses, eyes seeming to narrow just the slightest bit to indicate its disdain, "Who fucking said you could just walk in."

"Uh, you opened the door," he says, and if possible, the way the alien cants his head indicates an even higher level of disdain.

"I opened the door to tell you to get the fuck out, not for you to come in and throw shit like a fucking moron."

"Hmph. Well, get over it, little man. The awesome me has come to pay America a visit, and grace him with my amazing presence," and damn if it doesn't feel good to say as such. There had been far too few opportunities as of late to say such necessary words, and as such, it is almost as if a tension within himself has lifted, leaving a euphoric feeling of triumph behind. "Whatcha gonna do about it?"

The alien scrutinizes him for a few seconds, and Prussia wonders if maybe it has something like a laser-gun hidden in some trans-dimensional pocket of space to be pulled out and used when especially persistent, visiting nations are around. At last it turns around, a mutter of 'Fucking kraut,' falling from its unseen lips, before turning the deadbolt in the door and walking past the once-nation like a cool breeze. Gilbert feels as though something incredibly important has just occurred, but he can't quite figure out what it is.

Gilbird, for her part, takes this moment to awaken, stirring herself from the confines of the nation's hair with a shiver and a shake. She had needed quite the excuse from Prussia to get past Customs, and had been sleeping since the cab-ride over to America's house from the airport. With a cheep, she flops out of his hair and onto his shoulder, taking in her surroundings with beady eyes before hoisting herself up on tiny legs. With another cheep, she goes airborne and flutters after the retreating form of the alien.

This almost seems like too much trouble, is all he can think as he follows the others into the gloam of the house. Before he steps out of the foyer, though, he turns around and does a quick clap, pleased as the lights dim the world into a fading afterglow.

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Wut? What are these shenanigans? I dunno. Hello, the DayDreaming here, making a decidedly unpleasant entrance into the Hetalia fandom, on the coattails of writer's block for the other two fandoms I'm writing for. What an excuse! Anyways, yeah. Don't know what I'm doing, and I feel awfully self-conscious when pitted against all of the other incredibly good authors in this fandom. I'm sorry to bombard you guys with crap, please forgive me!

And yeah, not gonna reveal the pairing quite yet. I'll let you guys (if anyone decides to read this load of shit) flounder for a bit; but it's fairly obvious. Some one-sided romantic feelings will abound, though.

And for anyone who can guess which Emily Dickinson poem I got the title from, I'll write you a one-shot. How's that sound for a deal? :D Ahaha, look at that triple-entendre at the end there! Only I get it, but I still feel like pointing it out!


	2. What the Hell is Going On?

**OKAY, SO MAYBE I'M A LITTLE BIT SPECIAL IN THE HEAD WHEN IT COMES TO MY SEASONS**. **LAST CHAPTER, I SAID IT WAS FALL. I LIED. IT'S BEEN CHANGED TO SUMMER. JUST THOUGHT YOU GUYS SHOULD KNOW, KTHNXBYE**

**A Perished Sun**

**By**: The DayDreaming

**Warnings**: Language. A bit of angst and OOC-ness? I can't quite get these characters spot on, but it's intentional on America's part.

_This chapter has not been beta'd or checked for mistakes. If you feel there are any glaring errors besides my poor vocabulary and grammar, feel free to point it out and I'll do my best to assuage the situation._

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Chapter 2**: What the Hell is Going On?

**~o.O.o~**

He finds himself walking into the kitchen by the time he catches up to his alien guide, the overhead lights casting a gleam around the room that bounces off linoleum and chrome alike; enough to create an almost cheerful atmosphere despite the rest of the home's darkness. The creature moves ahead of him, over to a stove with a barstool propped against the oven door. He tries to resist snickering at the thought of the alien being scrambling up the platform, until the alien begins to levitate off the ground of its own volition, hovering above the stool with an ease most birds would envy. Prussia doesn't allow his jaw to drop too much.

As the creature settles, Gilbird flutters over, a ball of highlighter-yellow in the shine, and settles atop the alien's head. It pauses in its ministrations of turning on one of the burners. Gilbert is almost afraid that it might decide to try something on the chick, and that he'll have to step in to teach the celestial visitor a harsh lesson in beating on awesome chicks like Gilbird, when the being merely tilts its head and pulls a tall pot onto the stove-top without apparent effort.

From there, it begins to stir what smells like some sort of beef stew, already in the process of being made when his knocking must have distracted the alien. He looks around, trying to spot a sign of the house's owner, but sees neither hide nor hair. In fact, besides the dirty slip-on sneakers in the foyer and the ticking of a Kit-Cat clock set over the garbage bin in the corner **(1)**(objects so distinctly America it almost hurts), the representative of the United States doesn't seem to live in the house at all.

"Oi, _fremd_, where's the bumbling hero?" he tries to say it casually, not unnerved _at all_ when the alien twists its head around and stares at him with its bulging red eyes, contempt evident in its gaze. It blinks, then goes back to stirring the pot. He growls, "OI! Don't ignore the awesome me!"

The alien still doesn't say anything, and Prussia is just about to make a grab for its large and protruding head when it begins to hover once more, over to a high cabinet, and remains in the air as it opens the door and pulls out four large bowls. It gives a cursory glance to the nation standing in the middle of the floor; deeming it fine, it promptly tosses the bowls at Prussia's head, "Catch, you fucking kraut."

His protest is cut off when the glass bowls thud into his chest and his arms knock together in a semblance of a net (cause hell no would he have dropped them; he was like a fucking ninja). He's not quite sure what to do with them, and is contemplating throwing them back at the alien's face (the problem of Gilbird's current residence is of course a main concern) when the creature hovers to the ground and walks to a wooden drawer by the kitchen sink, small feet tapping a light tempo on the tiled floor. As it fingers through what sounds like various metallic implements, it hisses, "Don't just stand there, fucking kraut. Fill them up, pupu."

He sneers and sets the bowls on the counter with a clatter, loud enough to catch the other's attention, "The awesome me is no one's maid, _fremd_. Remember that."

The alien, three spoons in hand, immediately flips him off, eyes narrowing enough to be giving a noticeable glare. Gilbert can feel a distinct sense of discomfort, almost as though the air around the being is darkened and roiling, but plays it off as a trick of the light. America sure hangs out with some interesting people, he can't help thinking (and really, he does; who else could possibly stand to hang around nut-jobs like a sober England and Japan?). Still giving off an unnerving air, the creature taps over and opts to crawl up the barstool this time (Prussia almost can't hold in his snicker at the alien's shimmying form). It quickly ladles out large, steaming portions of a thick beef stew, cuts of potatoes and carrots prominent in the brown broth, before shoving two of the hot bowls into Prussia's hands with little regard to the scalding temperature. He tries to keep a straight face, even as his stiff form steps away from the volatile alien, willing himself to not drop the shivering bowls (he's too awesome for pain, and he definitely isn't shaking). Meanwhile, the alien hops down from its perch with the other two bowls and briskly walks out of the kitchen, back into the darkness of the hallway, Gilbird chirping a quick goodbye to him as the pair falls out of sight.

"What the hell is up with this place," he mutters, ambling into the dark, "Crazy. Everyone who lives in America is fucking crazy."

Moving through the darkened halls, light spilling past semi-closed blinds and creating a fanciful fluorescent trail by which to see the alien host and his passenger, Prussia can't help but feel discomforted, like this is a bad horror movie from Japan, or some creepy psychological shit thriller. Was America being held hostage in his own basement, and he was about to be lead to this alien's secret lair, where the other nation would be hatching aliens for the grey creature? Was he going to get _probed_?

"My vital regions are too awesome to be probed!" he shouts to himself. This statement is met with the now-customary 'fucking kraut' from the alien walking ahead of him.

At last, the duo (trio! Gilbird was just as important as the next person, thank you!), comes to a staircase situated against the back of an empty room, ambient light from large windows criss-crossing the hardwood floor and casting ribbed shadows from the banister. His alien companion certainly doesn't seem to think the room is strange (though the fact that there is absolutely nothing there raises Gilbert's hackles; almost like a too-clean room in Austria's house, but in this circumstance, he can't 'attend' to the problem), and stops at the foot of the stairs.

"Where the hell are we going? You are taking me to America, right? 'Cause if you aren't, the awesome that is me is gonna have t—" Gilbert's rant is interrupted by a harsh clicking sound from the alien.

He would have gone to America himself, if he wasn't concerned about Gilbird's well-being; for her part, Gilbird looks perfectly content atop the alien's cranium (look! Practically the same color as Prussia!). The alien turns its head to him again and grouses, "Shut up, pupu. Don't make a fucking sound."

Prussia promptly makes to yell out his defiance when the alien begins to hover up the stairs; he grudgingly follows, not wanting to get lost in the vast emptiness that is America's abode (the place is huge, with absolutely no sign of inhabitance besides the odd knick-knack tacked to a wall or placed on a shelf). At the top of the steps, the alien falls to the ground again and swiftly moves to a door a little ways from the stairwell. He's surprised when the alien knocks on the door (by now, he figures that the alien is as rude as they come, especially to awesome people such as himself), then opens it with little preamble, the creak of unoiled hinges grating to his ears.

Inside, a floor lamp casts a soft orange glow around a sparsely decorated room, fighting with the deep hues of a sunset outside one of the room's two windows for dominance. A couch with a blanket and pillow is placed haphazardly in the room's center, a glass coffee table steeped in official-looking white documents and manila folders settled reverently before it. In front of the only other window in the room is a desk, also stacked with documents, alongside the latest model of flat-screen computer technology. An ergonomic mouse and keyboard sit in front of this; a festoon of wires and cables sprouts from the back of the desk and meets with an overloaded power strip, not-so-subtly hidden by a sputtering printer, spitting out paper in quick succession.

Most important is the room's resident, a tall blond in spectacles, typing furiously away at the aforementioned keyboard, creating a constantly streaming line of text on a Word document. He doesn't seem to acknowledge their presence until he holds up a hand and waves, calling out, "Hey, Tony! Dinner already?"

As though it's what it's been waiting for, the alien, presumably 'Tony' from what he can gather, sidles into the room, the two (still extremely hot!) bowls of stew held out like a gift. The handle of a spoon leans against the side of one, slowly making a descent into the broth. The computer chair America has been sitting in swivels, finally revealing the blond in all his glory, though, somehow, it seems a bit anti-climactic; the final boss in one of Japan's video games turning out to not be so badass after all (unless America suddenly decides to mutate into a twenty foot tall monster, just for the hell of it). He looks surprisingly underdressed, donning only a loose t-shirt and even looser lounge pants decaled in tiny yellow stars on a swirling, blue backdrop. Prussia almost feels like he's invading someone's privacy, seeing the nation so, for a lack of better words, exposed. In all of their encounters, he has never once seen America wear less than a shirt of some sort and a pair of pants or shorts (that one Christmas spent with half the world flashing the other half didn't count).

Just as America takes the bowls in his hands and grimaces in discomfort, he decides it's about time he got some damn recognition in this hellhole, and so pushes past the door.

"Yo, America, the awesome me has come to complete your empty and meaningless life with my awesome presence," he says as way of greeting, the type of thing that would have West shaking his head in dismay and Austria reprimanding him for such poor grammar.

America looks startled at his appearance, almost dropping the bowls as he sets them on his over-crowded desk, and then quickly glances over to Tony, whom merely stares at America with its depthless gaze.

"I thought I said no visitors," tumbles from the American's lips, and Tony tilts his head with a tiny shrug. America bites his cheek, then proceeds to take his glasses off and rub them on his shirt, before saying, "So he just came in and wouldn't leave? That why that thing is on your head? 'Kay, fine. Thanks, Tony."

And like that, the problem seems to be resolved. America gives him a lop-sided grin before turning around to grab the bowl on his desk with the spoon in it, blowing across the surface of the thick soup. Tony ambles over to Prussia and grabs one of the bowls from his hands, another spoon protruding from its surface (when did that get there?), and then walks over to the room's couch, sitting atop the plump pillow propped in the corner. Unsure of what to do, as it seems America is enthralled with simply blowing on soup and Tony is stalwartly ignoring him, Prussia is left to stand in the doorway with the last bowl scalding away at his hand.

He's not sure whether to be pissed off or fed up. So far, he's been on his best behavior here, just as Ludwig has been begging him to be to people for the last century or two. And here, in America, where so far everyone has just been a right douchebag (he _might_ have incited some of this behavior, but that's beside the point), the nation that he's so graciously sought out is (of all things!) pegging him as an unwanted distraction, then brushing him aside (for goddamn soup!). The last time he checked, this was how England or West might act, not the blundering idiot of a nation sitting across from him. It creates an odd feeling in his chest, the knowledge that even the self-proclaimed hero doesn't want to talk to him; he quickly shakes off that thought. Haha, just kidding, America's apathy is probably because he hasn't soaked in the fact that the mighty _Prussia_ has come to him for, well, for…

For what, exactly? Why had he thought coming to America would make such a difference?

While he's thinking this, America has finished blowing on his stew, and has begun spooning it into his mouth at a lightning-quick pace. He looks up for a second to see where Tony's gone, and then catches sight of Prussia still haunting the room's entrance like a ghost. "You're…Prussia…right?" he stumbles over the name, hoping that he's recalled it form his foggy memory bank correctly.

"Damn right," Gilbert replies, snapping to attention from his intense scrutiny of a slowly rotating ceiling fan he hadn't noticed before.

"Right, Prussia," he smiles and spoons some more soup into his mouth, "Go sit and eat. Tony made you a bowl, right?"

At this, Prussia looks down at the singular bowl of stew in his hand, another unnoticed spoon swirling along the rim. Oh. Right. He wanted to ask, 'Really?' but refrains when he looks over to the couch and the alien is giving him that creepy look again.

"Yup! Don't let it get cold, or Tony'll be angry. Tony makes really awesome food, too, so eat it!" America's grin grows wider, and Gilbert almost thinks he hears a cracking noise coming from the teen's face.

He sighs, "Whatever." Flopping onto the couch and resting his meal on the arm to let it cool down (it might do so within the next century, with how hot it is, and by the angry red blisters forming on his palms, who knows), takes another cursory glance of the room. As soon as he's settled, America finishes his first bowl and sets it aside, stretching his arms and back afterwards with an incredibly large yawn. He starts typing again, fingers clacking on keys the only sound permeating the room, fast and efficient. Prussia's slightly surprised; he always figured that America was the type to push his work aside or doodle on the margins of important documents (at least, he was fifty or sixty years ago, from what he could tell; it had been a long time since he had paid attention to the blond abomination for more than a few lapsing seconds, when his and England's arguments reached super-sonic levels). Tony makes another harsh clicking noise, the same as when he and Prussia were on the stairs, to which America raises a placating hand and replies, "Yeah, I know. I'm almost done, so I can't stop. By the way, I finished that other report I've been working on; could you go over it for me? Thanks."

Tony releases another click, then spoons more stew into his mouth, as if expressing anger (Prussia feels it odd that he's starting to understand the odd little alien's gestures in such a short span of time). Gilbert can't help but notice how Tony never talks to America, but America seems to be able to understand Tony perfectly fine anyways. What does it call him when he actually speaks, something like 'Fucking yank'? Yet another thing to add onto the list of why he'll never come to America's house again. Not only is there no appreciation of awesome, but there's also a blatant lack of normality anywhere within the realms of this country (and usually this isn't a bad thing, but somehow America reaches Twilight Zone proportions).

He eyes a sizable stack of paper on the coffee table, the top page blatantly claiming it as some sort of report on a session of Congress addressing several bundled bills. The stack has to be at least a foot tall, and held together in several small piles by black clips. He takes the top stack, and opens past the title page, only to be greeted by a table of contents, and then, of all things, a legal disclaimer. Not bothering to look, he thumbs over to the next page, only to be slammed with a solid wall of text. He reads the first sentence. Then reads it again. And again. On the fourth try, he tries to go over it in sections, because, really, what the hell kind of sentence takes up over half the page?

Okay, so it's talking about…the House of Congress? On June 26th. And they're talking about a bill to…standardize…something. Along with something else. Followed by something else again. Right. Next sentence.

Something. Something something something. Session for the day came to order. What? They haven't even started yet?

Prussia quietly closes the report, then sets it back on the pile which seems to have magically doubled in size since the last time he looked. He glares at it stonily.

Wishing he could stab the report, he instead opts to look over at America, still industriously tapping away at his desk. This is so lame, he thinks. Isn't America supposed to be all fun-loving and shit? He should have jumped at the chance to have a visitor as awesome as him. He can kinda understand not jumping at England, but seriously, it's him! Prussia! The guy that helped him win his little revolution! Which, now that he thinks about it, is the exact reason he came here.

"Hey, America," he asks, noticing that the other has taken to eating soup with his left hand while simultaneously typing on his right (kinda amazing, in all honesty), "What's with all this crap here? Did you write it?"

America acknowledges him with a muffled 'yeah' as he tries to speak and swallow at the same time. He grows quiet again as he blindly places his bowl off to the side, then starts working full speed, eyes zombie-like on the screen. With little preamble, the American starts spouting off, "Most of it I type and then Tony proof-reads, stuff in the folders is from my boss' aides. Some of it is bills for congress, too..."

The sentence trails off, America going back to fully focusing on typing what must be three million words per minute by how fast black letters are filing across the screen. Not wanting the finally attentive nation to stop conversing now that he'd started, Prussia plows ahead, "What's with all the legal jargon? Looks like a load of bullshit, if you ask me. Never took you for the type."

"That's how everyone writes in the government," America replies, stopping for a second to sweep his eyes over to the printer, which has finally ceased spewing out paper, "Everything has to follow the proper parameters to be submitted to my boss. Didn't used to have to write that way, but ever since it started becoming impossible to submit anything without the media butting in, all my bosses tell me to write like this.

"Fucking annoying, but it's easy enough, I guess," he wheels his chair over to check a blinking light on the printer, curses, then wheels back to the desk. Tugging a ream of paper from a little cubby hole on the side, he tears away the wrapper and sticks the entire stack into the paper holder. The printer immediately starts spewing out paper again. "They haven't been asking me to do as much lately, so it's been alright, but I'm still way behind on everything."

"Do you even understand what it is you're putting down? How the hell can you make heads or tails of it?" Prussia can't help but shout a little. It really pisses him off, America acting like working like a robot is no big deal (and practically ignoring him!).

At this, America pauses, looking thoughtfully to the ceiling. Coming to a conclusion, he grins brightly at the Prussian, "I dunno."

Gilbert slaps his forehead.

"Anyways, why are you here?" America asks, back to tapping away on his sparking keyboard.

"Well, duh," Prussia replies, leaning back into the couch and propping his feet on top of the Congress report, an action which immediately earns a 'Fucking kraut!' from Tony, "I came here to be awesome! You know, give you the chance to finally hang out with someone cool. Also to ask where my invitation to your party is, and I guess, West's invite, too."

"I can't," America says, hunching his shoulders and squinting at the moniter when a red squiggle appears on the screen, "What's another word for 'immolate'?"

"I don't know…uh, emulate?"

"…"

America quickly taps on the backspace key and pulls up an online thesaurus.

"So, y'know, when I said that I came all the way over here to be awesome and hang out, I MEANT get your ass up so we can go out and get smashed. Like, now." Prussia glares at the back of the other nation's head.

"Can't," is the reply again. With a decisive tap and a smirk of triumph, America clicks save and pulls up the print screen, "I'm busy."

Prussia almost sputters, "With what? This shit? You've got to be kidding me!"

America looks back, mouth tightened in an unfamiliar smile, thin-lipped and small, "Sorry."

He almost wants to tell him to wipe that stupid smile off his face. It's so stupid, like someone else's lips pasted onto the American's face; because in over 200 years of knowing the brat, never has he seen such a self-depreciating smile on someone everyone knows is more full of himself and egotistical than Prussia (there might be some slight discrepancies with this statement, as could be voiced by various nations such as Austria and Hungary and West and…). America had no right to look like that, like someone trapped in a corner with no way out, desperation and acceptance; insincerity and warm, honest veracity.

Gilbert doesn't realize he's scowling until Tony shoves his legs off the coffee table and upsets his position on the couch. The little alien grabs the entire report on Congress and various bundled bills full of shit, and settles back into the cushions, flipping pages like a madman with a red pen, stopping every now and then to make tiny notations or corrections.

He gets up and makes to leave the room, the house even. He needs air and space; despite the vast desert that is America's house, having only the barest hints of the usual vivacious spirit of the American, it's almost claustrophobic. Just watching someone work like that, hints of deep purple bags under bloodshot eyes and clothes too loose for someone so tall; it's sickening. He had seen West like that before, after the first World War when Germany had needed to pay so much back. Endlessly working and signing documents, reading and speaking; it was painful to see Ludwig, the little boy he'd taken in, fall so hard, and then even harder at his second loss. And sure, he still feels bitter towards him, towards Ludwig who is the base cause of the split of Prussia the country, the reason why Prussia the nation no longer holds a place or purpose within the ever-shrinking world.

Even as he hates Ludwig, he loves him more, because they are brothers and comrades no matter what. He wonders if this must be how England feels towards America, this same hate and love; though more than anything it's turned to an acerbic loathing towards the once bright-eyed youth, as far as Prussia can tell. Then he wonders if America knows it too, behind his stupid smiles and babbling mouth, just how much the world resents and abhors him, how much they wish he would just disappear and never come back. There is an intelligence to the nation that is like a well-kept secret, something only he and that blasted Russia have seen, back when the Cold War was in full swing. Russia can terrify even the most stalwart of soldiers, bite into their minds like a cold, rabid dog and rip it to shreds. But, America. He is the only one to have ever shaken Russia to the core, and the only one to ever be treated like an equal.

America knows, he thinks to himself, standing out in the dark of the hallway; a phantom in an empty house. America has always known what the world thinks. The thought makes him grit his teeth.

"Leaving already?" America doesn't sound particularly sad about it, but neither does he sound happy; the neutrality of his voice alerts Prussia to the knowledge that this has happened before, and is perhaps a thoroughly scripted play.

"Yeah," he grunts. "This place is lame. I'll come back another day."

"Awesome," and already the typing has resumed. Prussia still holds his back to the open doorway.

"About your birthday…," he starts, hating how…well, not defeated, but disappointed? his voice is, "When are we going to get our invitations? People have been asking around, and I personally want to make sure you're not serving any of your shitty beer. It's in two days, right?"

The typing in the other room slows, a few hesitant clicks and clacks falling flat to the floor.

America takes a minute to answer, staring intently at the screen in front of him, filled with words and statements that he'd never utter in a thousand years; dead words from dead fingers. He keeps his voice neutral, because really, he's not sure what he feels on the matter. Sad? Not really. Happy, no. If anything, he's relieved.

"I'm not having a party this year."

Prussia grits his teeth harder, the ache in his jaw solidifying, "Why not? Don't you always have one to celebrate your independence?"

"Not this year," America says, voice slick with simple words, and a kind of giddy joy (because isn't this just like rebelling again? Look at them, look at them; so upset over something he finally didn't overdo). "Tony and I are going to make a cake and maybe swim in the pool. It'll be nice, just the two of us. That's why I have to get this work done; so we can have a day off."

Prussia can practically hear that little self-deprecating smile on the blond's lips. It makes his heart pound the beat of a drum in his ears.

"Fine," he mutters, and unclenches his fists, the imprints of his nails imbedded like red scars into his palm. He whistles, and Gilbird comes to him, flopping onto his head like a loyal dog. He turns at last, staring into the rectangular doorway, viewing a cold and desolate world entirely different from his own. The setting of the sun is visible from that one window and casts a silhouette on everything, a blanket of purple and orange. It almost makes the room look pretty.

As he glances to where America rests in his chair, opening and closing his hand in an attempt to stretch the cramping muscles, Gilbert can't help but think it is the vision of a man trapped in a never-ending dream. Even though he's beautiful in the ruins of a utopia, America continues to decay. He wonders if one day, America really will become nothing but a dream; a fleeting vision glimpsed in only the darkest and most hopeless of nights; starlight and constellations.

Prussia turns away, because he can't stand the thought.

* * *

That evening, even as he tosses and turns in the uncomfortable chair in third-class, the only seat available for a last minute ticket to Munich, Prussia can't help but think about America.

The vision won't fade; the idea of America, the seemingly invincible nation that had stunned the world in his quick ascent to power, and self-proclaimed hero of the universe, just…falling away. In someone's arms, or alone in that singular chair, bathed in the evening sun; he could envision the pale skin and gold hair, cracks and fissures along the roads of veins and arteries, form greying with each staggering breath. He'd smile, reaching his arm up to the sky, the only place that could ever hold him. And then…he could imagine that someone like America would go out in light, shattering into a million fireflies or a storm of stars headed heaven-ward.

He has never witnessed the death of a nation, but he imagines it would be different for everyone. What lies beyond the oppressive confines of the world? Does it hurt? Could you see the nations that had come before you, your mothers and fathers and brothers, slain in battle or soul? Sometimes he's tempted to assuage his curiosity, but something always stays his mind, like West smiling at him even a little, or Italy absent-mindedly handing him flowers; listening to Austria play Beethoven or Hungary singing while hanging the laundry; France or Spain, calling him for a get-together at an unfortunate pub.

He wonders what stays America's mind, keeps him rooted to the world and its agonizing torment. He has few, if any, friends left; not even his brother can really stand him.

"I am so fucked," he hisses, curling up in his seat and praying for a swift unconsciousness.

* * *

When he staggers into the house, he can see that Ludwig has fallen asleep in the living room recliner, a thin folder propped open in his lap, most likely some statistics on the economy. He must have noticed Gilbert's disappearance the day before, had probably called every country in Europe to find a lead on him.

He sighs tiredly; the plane had gotten in on time, but it's still extremely early, and he's only managed a very fitful rest.

He walks to Ludwig's room and pulls a quilt from the other's immaculate closet, accidentally upsetting several hanging suits. He drags it back out to the living room, draping it over his brother's sleeping form, making sure to cover the shoulders and bunch the ends under Ludwig's bare feet. Damn, he's an awesome brother.

Once in his room, Gilbert doesn't fall to his bed and rest like he'd love to do. Instead, he places Gilbird aside and pulls an old, army-issue duffel bag from under his bed. The ticket to Virginia in America burns a hole in his pocket.

**

* * *

(1)** Kit-Cat clocks are real clocks. :) How many of you guys thought it was like a Kit-Kat bar? It's that clock you always see in old shows and cartoons, the cat with moving eyes and tail. Created in America in the 1930's, it was supposed to bring a little joy to people suffering in the Great Depression. Here's a link to the website (remove the spaces): http: /www. kit-cat. com/ kitcathistory. htm

_Fremd__: Supposedly 'alien' in German, though probably not at all accurate. I'm sorry to anyone who knows German and is crying in anguish! I shame my ancestors. D:_

* * *

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALFRED! May you continue to be awesome and heroic for another year! :)

It…wasn't supposed to go on for this long, b-but, it's Alfred's birthdaaaay! I wanted to give a good gift. Anyways, hope it's okay. So, you guys probably have a lot of questions (I *know* you're out there; this story got **77** views in one day!). To be honest, so do I! I mean—wait, uh. Of course I know where this story is going, silly of you to ask! All shall reveal itself. Maybe. I dunno.

_**

* * *

**_

**WARNING: COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY INFORMATION**

_**A couple interesting things go on in this chapter**_: Alfred being a super-fast typist. I always figured he'd be able to do things on the computer fast, just like he's probably a super-texter and a wiz on Photoshop (Alfred is such a dork!). I also imagine he'd be able to spew BS lawyer jargon from his mouth and fingers with no problem. In the U.S. you can't trip over your own feet without a lawyer running up to you and saying that there's a lawsuit for that, and that lawyer actually winning the case in court. It's really annoying and scary. Lawyer jargon is also why many Americans are incapable of reading proposed bills in Congress; because, in reality, even the people who wrote the bill have no fucking clue what it actually means, nor do they really pay attention.

_**About the Cold War**_: Something that always really annoys me in Cold War stories (I love RussAme!) is how everyone portrays Alfred as being a bumbling idiot, and also being incredibly terrified of Russia, and also having never ever known Russia on a more intimate level in his entire life. This is a lie. First and foremost, America and Russia were playing fucking mind games with each other. You can't be stupid for that to occur. And yes, America was afraid and paranoid of Russia and Communism in the Cold War, but you'll also be amazed to find that the Soviets were in fact just as afraid and paranoid of America. Why? _Because we're about as fucking insane as them_. Finally, most amazing of all, is the fact that America and Russia used to be _extremely_ buddy-buddy with each other, before, y'know they turned on each other (did you know one of the main reasons this happened is because of Winston Churchill's Iron Curtain speech? England totally cockblocked America and Russia. XD).

* * *

So, yeah. There you go. I hope you guys are enjoying this story. I don't think I'll write another long chapter like this for a while. Sorry for the angst-buckets and meaningless beginning. I just love Tony, though, and the fandom always seems to forget he exists, along with America's whale. Also, sorry for the rough writing; present-tense always kicks my ass, since I forget which tense I'm in and slip into past-tense.

Thank you all very much for the alerts and faves. :) I mighty appreciate it. But, I'd also like some critiques on my work, if it's not too much trouble. Please tell me if my characterization strays too far or if I have a blatant error. A beta probably wouldn't be a bad thing for me, either. Thank you for reading; I'll end this too-long A/N here. HAPPY 4TH OF JULY/INDEPENDENCE DAY/BIRTHDAY ALFRED!


	3. The Dust has Only Just Begun to Fall

**A Perished Sun**

**By**: The DayDreaming

**Warnings**: Language. A bit of angst and OOC-ness. Many, many grammatical errors and inconsistencies.

_This chapter has not been beta'd or checked for mistakes. If you feel there are any glaring errors besides my poor vocabulary and grammar, feel free to point it out and I'll do my best to assuage the situation._

**

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Chapter 3**: The Dust has Only Just Begun to Fall

**~o.O.o~**

The next day, Prussia arrives on America's doorstep, severely jet-lagged and contemplating the ignominious fate of lawn décor.

* * *

**Success **is counted sweetest

**By **those who ne'er succeed.

**To **comprehend a nectar

**Requires **sorest need.

0

**Not **one of all the purple Host

**Who **took the Flag today

**Can **tell the definition

**So **clear of Victory

0

**As **he defeated-dying-

**On **whose forbidden ear

**The **distant strains of triumph

**Burst **agonized and clear!

-Emily Dickinson

* * *

Tony opens the door to find Prussia, speaking candidly to a 'Gilbird' about the finer details of masculine-detailed birdbaths as opposed to frilly little fairy decorations like the ones in England's garden, though from close observation it turns out he's addressing the yellow doorbell off to the left.

"Fucking kraut," the alien growls, slamming the door shut as the conversation shifts to a mysterious 'five meters.'

One hour later, Tony opens the door, only to have a thoroughly unconscious ex-nation fall through the entryway and lay across the doorstep like a particularly pale corpse. The small aviary creature from the last visit settles soundly on the smooth crown of his cranium, chirping out a quick salutation. Tony contemplates what to do about the situation.

Reaching a conclusion, he promptly attempts to close the door, thwacking the intruder a couple of times before deciding that trying to dislodge the obstruction from the door's path is too much trouble. Tony can hear the oven timer for his cookies going off, and so leaves the Prussian to act as an unwelcome doorstop for the time being (before departing, he gives one more heated effort to shut the ingress, though this proves unfruitful).

It's only after the day has passed, sun and earth melding together in a dying inferno and stars beginning to burn anew in the sky, that he returns, sees the nation curled in on himself in a fitful sleep. The other has managed to fall off the step, heaped himself onto the doormat; he's shivering, for even if it's summer, night is night, and a hard wind and rain will curtail the horizon in a few hours. The bird which has since been set atop his skull gives another chirp and flutters down to the nation. Tony is once again left to contemplate what to do.

Looking at the nation, cold and entwined within himself for a warmth that will not come, alone and bedraggled, he can see his young friend, sprawled on the floor in exhausted slumber, sickened and weak, or perhaps too apathetic to tell the difference between hard couch and hard floor. Tony sighs with the knowledge that Alfred won't be happy at the other's presence. He himself won't be happy for that matter, not if Prussia turns out to be just like those other nations, grubbing for money and support and all sorts of shit that they'll just throw back in Alfred's face later. Tony doesn't like the sounds of screaming and cursing in the household, not if it's coming from someone other than himself and Alfred when they're playing videogames or watching a marathon of horror movies (though, this decades' old tradition hasn't occurred for quite a while).

But he can't help thinking how much the man at his doorstep reminds him of Alfred during nights spent not-crying and almost-crying and falling asleep in the dark security of a closet, riddled in blankets and an old, patched-up rabbit doll with water stains too numerous to count. A night is all it takes for the world to tip over and spill-out; by morning, things can be okay again, because Alfred's great at pretending and ignoring and taking showers to wash the red blotches away, because his face gets stained just as easily as his rabbit.

Even if Alfred won't be happy at the presence of another, he would be even not-happier if he left the fucking kraut out to rot and get pneumonia.

Tony goes to get the dolly. **(1)**

* * *

Prussia awakens to warmth, head resting on what feels like the rough fabric of a throw-pillow and body consumed in the maws of two hand-made quilts. Cocooned as he is, Gilbert feels neither the need nor the desire to move; it smells pleasant, like apples and summer wind. He can remember this scent from over two hundred years prior, but he can't recall where from; only that it incites some of the most peaceful feelings he's ever had.

Blue skies and green leaves, rolling fields that fall into forests which become mountains and extend into infinity. Flashes of gold, like the sun; had Francis been there? Smiling, it had felt so good to smile during times so bitter and hopeful. _It always tastes the best after a good, hard rain…_

Maybe if he falls back to sleep he'll dream of it. Alas, he finds that his groggy mind is gradually growing aware of more persistent problems. He grudgingly shifts, uncoiling like a compressed spring, stretching cold toes that even the thickest blankets never seem to warm. He flops an arm out of his heated shell, only to be met with an alarmed chirp as Gilbird is almost smushed, reprimanding him with a soft nip before hopping along the length of his torso and squatting at his temple like a particularly smug cat. Everything feels slow, like wading through cotton; almost not worth the effort of extrication. But eventually he worms his way to the ground, off of what he now finds to be a couch, covered in a dusty, protective sheet.

The cold of the floor soaks into him like a sponge, though it's not particularly harsh or unpleasant; merely providing an inviting contrast to the lulling fever-warmth of the bedding still entwined about his legs and torso. It's almost enough to stay there, and yet he still pushes on, crawling toddler-like to his feet and stumbling out of the covers (he's too awesome to trip out of sheets, after all). Now more fully awake and aware, he takes in the details of the area; a sitting room with a recliner and loveseat, both covered in dust-protectors, set on either side of the couch to create a loose square. An end-table, also covered, rests parallel to the recliner with a small reading lamp and aged book, 'Walden' embossed in gold letters on the spine.

A grandfather clock stands resolutely by the door, though its face has long-since ceased movement, hands perpetually reading 8:46. The numbers look familiar, but Prussia can't put a finger on where he's seen them before.

Shrugging off the nagging thought, he heads out the door of the room, left slightly ajar. The hinges give a terrible squeal as he taps the wooden obstruction out of the way. Moving beyond the slightly musty room, Gilbert is slammed in the face with the odor of cooking meat, the air so heavily saturated and his stomach so empty that the lingering perfume of apples leaves his mind entirely.

He sets to wandering the numerous halls of what he assumes is America's house, since he can't really remember arriving where it is he woke up, or actually leaving for somewhere else, though the sparse walls and empty rooms he passes by are almost a dead giveaway to his current location. As he walks, he can see through a few windows that it's relatively early in the morning, watery sunlight peeking through a smattering of blue-rimmed clouds, yet to shake off the vestiges of night.

Thankfully, the first real place of use to him is a bathroom he finds after only a few minutes of aimless meandering, which he quickly utilizes. After that, the overwhelming problem on his mind is sniffing out the whereabouts of the kitchen. This task takes longer since, endless frustration upon endless frustration, he keeps running into dead ends, or rooms he's sure he's been in before, though it's hard to tell with their uniform starkness. Of course he isn't lost; just conducting a really long detour to take in all of the not-actually-there scenery, because he is awesome and cultured like that (so take that, Austria!).

It's only after he's sure he'll die of starvation that he stumbles upon an unnoticed door, directly across from the room he'd awoken in. Opening it reveals a familiar hall, a singular picture set squarely on the wall in front of the door, bearing an uncolored hamburger against a yellowed background. Painted under the food item in block letters are the words 'HAMBURGER; WHOLESOME, DELICIOUS.' A plaque set into the painting's wooden frame credits the author of the picture as Andy Warhol.

Prussia can't help but snort again at the painting, as he had when he'd first seen it the other day. It's absolutely ridiculous, and only America, the hamburger obsessed freak that he is, would want something like it hanging on his wall. But, now that he's seen it, he can recall that the kitchen is somewhere off to his left. Navigation is easier within the house, especially since ambient light from the windows isn't dimmed by the onset of evening, and he's able to move quickly to the front of the abode.

He's practically running by the time the entrance to the kitchen draws into the scope of his vision; with momentum on his side, he falls to his knees and slides the rest of the way, skidding to a stop in front of the opening with a certain amount of grace reserved for those who've been practicing for such occasions that required making a spectacle of one's self before even stepping foot into a room.

Tony, who is at this particular time carrying a hot tray of biscuits without oven mitts in front of said occupied entryway, merely stares at the Prussian, then turns to place the tray on a cooling rack atop a marble counter.

"Fucking kraut," it growls.

Gilbert huffs and pulls himself up, but decides to ignore the ignorant creature (it really had no appreciation for how exceedingly awesome that was) in exchange for stampeding into the cookery and snagging a biscuit, which he promptly drops at the discovery of its mildly blistering temperature. Tony makes an irritated click, and shakes its shoulders in what could be a sign of amusement, but otherwise remains silent.

A sudden noise has him whipping around, only to find America donning a ruffle-edged green apron. A frying pan, contents strewn across the floor, lays upside-down on the linoleum tiling, greased edges still sizzling. "Fuck," America swears, swiping at a large smear of hot oil on his apron and simultaneously staring at him in open surprise. Tony quickly moves to the other, picking up the pan and meat with no apparent discomfort before running both under water in the sink and patting them dry with a hand towel. It slaps the meat back into place and returns the pan to the stove, leaving America to wipe away the grease left on the floor.

America's mouth twists into an uneven half-smile as he breaks his stupor, looking Prussia up and down before bending to clean the linoleum with the wet hand towel that Tony had previously bestowed upon him. He takes off his ruined apron when he's finished and bundles the two used items together, wadding them under his arm as he stands again and gives Prussia another searching look.

"When did you get here?" blurts out of his mouth before he can really think about it.

Prussia is at a loss for what to say, since he can't really remember coming here himself except for a blurry memory of a rousing conversation with Gilbird on the correct sizing of 'equipment' for naked male lawn statues, so merely shrugs his shoulders and turns his attention back to trying to grab a biscuit.

America turns to Tony, who is currently flipping the finished ham-steak onto a pile of others, "Did you see him come in?"

Tony turns and stares at America, depthless red eyes piercing blue; Prussia watches the exchange, chewing noisily on the biscuit, though it's scorching his mouth.

"Yesterday?" America asks, brows furrowing. Tony nods, then grows still as America comments again, "He slept here?" At the next nod, America sighs, but then immediately smiles brightly, turning to Prussia with exuberance not unlike a sugar-high five year old.

Gilbert still wonders how it is that those two are able to communicate so thoroughly when one of the ones conversing is entirely silent; he figures it must be a weird America-thing.

"I wasn't expecting you so soon," America begins, walking past Prussia and over to a laundry basket sitting idly by the garbage bin. A lump of clothes has already formed in the container, what looks to be more aprons and hand towels awash in various bold colors. "I was actually wondering why Tony was asking for bread rolls and ham and stuff. That's what you and your brother eat for breakfast, right?"

"Yeah, most of time, I guess," Gilbert says, perplexed by the notion that the irate alien currently sending daggers at him via its enormous, glaring eyes would bother doing something like that.

"Tony's pretty awesome, right?" America's grin widens, stretching his cheeks and accentuating the bags under his eyes, "I don't know what I'd do without him!"

"Awesome's a word for it," he replies back, trying to resist the temptation to roll his eyes as the alien savagely cuts at the entire stack of ham-steaks with a butcher's knife while still intensely glaring at him. The alien might be pretending that the meat is Gilbert's head for the way it is stabbing as much as slicing at the pile.

"So…," America trails, looking at Prussia as though he is a particularly daunting puzzle. "So, uh…What are you doing here?"

Prussia honestly doesn't know. He can't understand what it is about the other nation that's bothering him so much. It's not his problem whether or not America is looking and acting like a wreck, nor is it his job to come over and babysit him or make him feel all better about the big, bad world. America, believe it or not, is his own nation, and has been so for years, no matter how many of those years have been spent solving a seemingly endless list of problems caused by the country itself. He shouldn't give a damn.

America is an idiot; always has been and always will be, but he's a hard-headed one that always manages to blunder his way through each and every error he makes. Others haven't been as lucky as him, haven't had as many second chances and third chances to right the wrongs and be forgiven over and over and over again. Prussia has certainly never gotten a second chance.

But, even then. He can't help but shake the feeling, stupid and useless and lame as it is, that what he says and does around the American can make a difference, can avert some kind of coming disaster or not-disaster. It's like a hum in his bones, singing a song like a turnabout warning.

The world has stopped turning to America for inspiration. The words 'Land of Opportunity' have ceased to apply, and instead of flocking to the globe's melting pot, people are running away. He's no longer classified as the top super power, though he is one, alongside Russia, and he's long since forfeited the title of strongest nation. China, as it had been predicted for some time, is the leader of the world, is given the prestigious honor of sitting at the head of meetings, and is looked upon admiringly and scornfully by the other nations.

Fifty years ago, Prussia thought he would have laughed at this situation; because to him, and to others, America was nothing but a nuisance, spoiled and impossible on the best of days. He would have laughed and laughed, sent nasty notes and reminders, shot spitballs at him during meetings. But when it actually did happen, when it became apparent that America had finally fallen from his throne atop the world (_but it's not imperialism, listen to me please I'm sorrydon'tleavemealone_), he said nothing, thought nothing of what he used to think he would. It was like a movie that used to have all the colors; each object vivid in its clarity. Even if the content is ugly and horrid, the world holds together through pigment; creates a complete picture. Then, one day, all the blue fades away and the sky is left an empty, suffocating grey, and the black ocean doesn't seem all that endless anymore. Everything is there, still whole and perfect, but things don't look quite as bright and cohesive as they used to be.

Somehow, Prussia, and perhaps the rest of the world, used to think it would be like victory once the mighty, obnoxious America lost his steam and fell to second-best. He wonders about that even now, the implications of those thoughts and their resulting actions and reactions.

All things considered, America has taken everything surprisingly gracefully, acceptance most likely ferried by China's humble attitude towards the situation (though Prussia couldn't exactly ignore the tiniest glint of superiority in the Asian's eyes the moment America looked away). The way everything happened, fast and without resistance, there was no time to really feel anything except for the unanticipated shock.

America walked out of the lime-light, of his own accord. He wasn't thrown, or pushed, or yanked; there were no tears.

He still holds his head high; is defiant, though not as loud, is strong, and determined. Prussia cannot help but admire him, even as the other nation frays at the seams.

But, as he is all these things, America is not invincible, and that's what worries Gilbert. The strong can fall. Germania fell. As did Ludwig.

And so too did Prussia.

He has no idea why he's here.

Prussia smirks at America, "I'm here for your party, duh."

America grins at him, though a hint of irritation enters his eyes, "I told you the other day I wasn't having one."

"I heard you're having cake and going swimming in a pool. Sounds like a party to me. I'm just here to make it awesome!" he says, lies falling off his tongue as well-rehearsed lines. It's one of the things he's best at, after all; he has a wicked poker-face that always lets him win against Francis and Antonio. He can even fool West sometimes, though the other has lived with him for so long that it's difficult to get away with. "I even got you a something, so be grateful."

America softens at the mention of a present (he has always loved gifts), and instead of standing to interrogate Prussia further, goes to the refrigerator to pull out a butter dish and jar of jelly.

"It's not exactly like your breakfasts," he explains as he pulls bananas and a bag of peaches off an open shelf, while Tony makes eggs over easy at the stove, "But, it'll do, right?" **(2)**

* * *

The first part of the day is spent baking.

Even if America says 'a cake,' he actually means an array of pastries that are to be consumed throughout the next few days, or century, as the amount of dough and batter and pie-filling Tony and he are preparing could feed an entire village for a year.

Prussia is left with the daunting task of spreading dough for cookies and pies with a floured rolling pin. Needless to say, he is an even paler albino than before, with pure white hair instead of natural silver. There is, in fact, a small mountain of flour around his feet, and the mint-green of the wall in front of him has gathered a fetching coat of chalky dust. A powdery ball of feathers sits primly atop Tony's head.

He doesn't feel particularly awesome at the moment. He keeps sneezing a combination of snot and flour, and his palms and arms ache from the repetitive motion of rolling and re-rolling the thick dough. The magenta apron tied to his front (it is **not** fucking pink, and it compliments his eyes, thanks) does not help in this distinct feeling of un-awesomeness.

America is ladling saucy cherry filling onto the bottoms of pie crusts and then creating surprisingly pretty woven lattice tops for the pies. **(3)** Tony is off to the side, stamping dough with a cookie cutter detailed to leave impressions of American flags.

America chats up a storm as he works, leaving little room for comebacks or remark as he jumps from topic to topic; Prussia gets the impression that he's doing it on purpose. At first he talks about an apparent storm that occurred sometime last night, and how some of the windows blew open and soaked the curtains. (Gilbert can really care less about the curtains; it's his fucking luggage that he's livid over, for the fact that it was left outside to soak in the rain and a goddamn puddle for the entire night. All of his clothes are now hanging out to dry in the back yard, since, apparently, Tony had gotten up quite early to do the laundry) Then he winds into a rant about how he went to the store the other day and one of shelf-stockers tipped over a display of canned cherries on him, which is how he got so many cherries for absolutely nothing. From there, he explains in excruciating detail about the sham story about his first boss chopping down a cherry tree as a boy and not lying about doing it** (4)**, then giggles through an apparently hilarious encounter he had with a man working as a George Washington impersonator.

The assault is dizzying, and somewhat tiresome, and Prussia can't help but feel a tiny bit lop-sided on the matter since America won't stop talking and yet he doesn't mind. Despite the previous day's visit, with America apparently happily babbling away and Tony only making scary faces every now then, and with something to do besides be awkward and confused, he feels at ease. It isn't like this at home with Ludwig, who is often too busy with business or Italy to spend time baking German delicacies or cooking anything close to extravagant alongside his brother. He often eats out or alone, with very little thought put into what he consumes.

Here, working with the windows open and a fresh, summer-scented breeze blowing through, the heady scent of sugar and dough permeating the air, it is almost what he can imagine having a wife or an attentive family might be like.

As the day stretches into noon, there is a knocking on the front door. They're mostly finished with the kitchen, though Tony persists to buzz around inside while he and America carry half of the pies and plates of cookies and iced cupcakes, and an embarrassingly decorated cake the shape of, he couldn't believe, George Washington's head (how in the world had America managed to find cake pans like that?), to the door. America pastes on the biggest smile he can, and it slightly surprises Gilbert with how stunning it appears on the patriotic nation's youthful face. The younger nation opens the door, and standing before them are a few middle-aged women, all dressed for the occasion. They hustle into the foyer and 'oooh' and 'aaah' at him and America, still covered in flower and icing, then begin examining their plentiful stock of pastries.

It only occurs to him the moment they start hauling baskets of cookies and pies away that these women are not here to 'celebrate' with them, but to take away their cache of goodies to an unknown location.

His surprise must have shown on his face, because America promptly pats him on the shoulder and laughs, handing him the ugly George Washington cake and pointing to an old, beaten-up truck out on his winding, gravel driveway.

"Can't believe you're giving this shit away," he grumbles.

"Why? Gonna miss them?" America laughs.

Gilbert snorts, sliding the large George Washington monstrosity into the back seat of the truck and shuts the door. Everything is mostly in the bed by now, the women on a tight schedule and working fast. Contributions from other homes lay in piles against the back, though his and America's take up the rest of the available space.

"I like doing this every now and then, y'know. Usually when I have a party there's no time to do anything for my citizens. This year, when I moved in about six or seven months ago, I went to one of the community meetings and you wouldn't believe they were already planning for the Fourth so far in advance!" America closes up the hatch on the truck and gives it a pat. "Didn't see a reason why not to, so I signed up for it, too."

"But all of my awesome work is gone now!" Prussia whines, folding his arms across his chest. The gaggle of middle-aged women walk up to them, smiling and praising he and America for a job well done, then set to begging the pair to come down for the community picnic; the blond politely refuses, and the women, practically melting at his earnest smile and promise to come for the fireworks and singing of the national anthem ("What, you signed up for that, too?") later that evening.

At last, they drive off, arms waving out the windows, and America exuberantly waves back.

Once back inside the house, Prussia sighs and heads for the kitchen, America following gaily behind him. Things aren't as bad as he thought they would be; not nearly as annoying as previously thought. It almost feels like a vacation, with a different house and host and landscape. There is none of the obnoxious plays for attention or loud, unbearable fights that break out between countries; none of the tension of a tense dinner with West, or the outrageous shenanigans of the Bad Touch Trio; no Austria or Hungary bearing down on him for getting too rowdy or being too annoying.

He is a little concerned about his growing fondness for the empty house the residents contained within.

Inside the kitchen, the lights have been turned off, and the windows shut with thin, gauzy curtains drawn. On a round, wooden table set at the very corner of the kitchen and barely visible in the false twilight, three lights burn, illuminating the figure of Tony. America whoops, and rushes forward, hands patting at the edges of the table to try and gauge the proximity of the cake, then settle. Prussia walks up behind him, and can't help but smirk along with the giddy look of joy etched on America's face in candle-light detail.

A few seconds pass before America huffs, pouting towards Prussia, "Aren't you gonna sing me happy birthday?"

He almost laughs at the idea; it's just so lame. An awesome person like Prussia wouldn't be caught dead singing such a trashy song.

He starts singing it anyway, America loudly joining in and referring to himself in third person; Tony stands, staring intently up at America. Perhaps in his and America's secret language, he too is singing.

At the end of the second rendition, because the blond nation had begged for another verse, out of synch with each other and out of breath, America blows out the three candles and claps his hands, the lights flipping on in an instant to reveal smoke rising over a cake shaped as the American flag, red, white, and blue icing detailing all fifty stars and thirteen stripes.

This must be what Tony was working on behind their backs; here and there are added touches, things only of a significant value to America and the alien, like a plastic spaceship imbedded in a corner, a whale smiling and spouting water in another; an airplane, cowboy boots, and an astronaut on a false lunar surface.

And in the middle, three candles in the shapes of numbers: **2**-**5**-**0**.

America picks up the five and licks icing from the stem, euphoria for the moment palpable in the air.

Prussia wants to ask what it was America wished for, in the instant before the world went out and the lights came on.

What did he wish for, in all his two hundred and fifty years, to make his eyes look so sad?

**

* * *

(1)** Dolly: Also known as a trolley, hand truck, two-wheeler, etc. It's used to move boxes and stuff. Where I live, we call them dollies, but I've heard people call them other things. Just wanted to clear up some possible confusion. Here's a link to the Wikipedia page: http:/ . org/ wiki/ Hand(underscore)truck

**(2)** This is gotten off of Wikipedia, so I don't know how accurate it is, but German breakfasts usually consist of bread rolls, ham, butter, jam, soft-boiled eggs, and coffee, along with varying regional traditions. Sorry if it's wrong. D: Here's the link: http:/ . org/ wiki/ Breakfast

**(3)** Woven lattice tops: Remember those pretty, intricate looking pie tops, with the dough weaving over and under itself? That kind of top. Here's a link for pictures, and how to do it: http:/ simplyrecipes. com/ recipes/ how(underscore)to(underscore)make(underscore)a(underscore)lattice(underscore)top(underscore)for(underscore)a(underscore)pie(underscore)crust/

**(4)** True facts, y'all. Remember that story you were told as a kid, when George Washington chopped down a cherry tree because he was tired of picking cherries, and when his dad asked about it, he owned up to it? LIES. See here: http:/ americanhistory. suite101. com/ article. cfm/ washingtonscherrytree

* * *

DID I MENTION THAT THIS IS SET IN THE FUTURE? NO? Sheesh, why do I do this to myself? Chapters for this story shouldn't be this long. Damn. Anyways, please forgive me for such a poor update. :( I was half-asleep as I wrote three-quarters of this, and am in fact nodding off right now as I type.

**

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TIME FOR SOME COMPLETELY USELESS INFORMATION ABOUT THE CHAPTER!**

**Virginia apples**: I cannot believe it, but my plot device for apples actually has a basis. Yup, Virginia is a large grower of apples, having a great variety and contributing $250 million to the U.S.' economy each year. Harvesting begins in July (You know where this is going! ;)). I'd like you guys to try and piece together the significance of the 'wake-up' scene for yourselves, though if you know a bit about Revolutionary War history, you'll get what I'm saying. Here's a link: http:/ www. virginiaapples. org/ facts/ index. Html

**Walden**: This book was written by Henry David Thoreau, a transcendentalist, famous for writing about his stay at Walden Pond. I mention this book because of its significance to the story; the themes it expresses will give you a hint as to what might happen if America really does do something drastic. If you're curious, check out the Themes section here: http:/ en. wikipedia. org/ wiki/ Walden

**The grandfather clock, stuck at 8:46**: At 8:46 a.m. on September 11th, 2001, the first hi-jacked plane crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center. Here, these are some pretty interesting numbers: http:/ nymag. com/ news/ articles/ wtc/ 1year/ numbers. Htm

**Hamburger, by Andy Warhol**: Pop art! Andy Warhol was a famous American pop artist, known best for his depictions of Campbell's soup labels and his Marilyn Monroe diptych. I've always figured America would love pop art and Andy Warhol, especially for his depiction of our hero's favorite food. Quite a few links for this one:

**Wiki on Andy Warhol**: http:/ en. wikipedia. org/ wiki/ Andy(underscore)Warhol

**Picture of Alfred's painting and other Warhol work (scroll down for Hamburger)**: http:/ www. art. com/ gallery/ id-a76/ andy-warhol-posters(underscore)p5. Htm

**Andy Warhol, eating a hamburger (I'm not kidding. XD He eats a hamburger. Alfred would be appalled, though)**: http:/ www. tressugar. com/ Andy-Warhol-Eats-Burger-King-Hamburger-1070768

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So, there we are. Once again, sorry for the poor chapter. This is more for set-up than anything else, though I do hope you enjoyed a bit more insight into what's happening. Things are coming together, eh? I feel really unsatisfied with it, but am too tired to do anything about it, as it is 2:30 in the morning, and my head is pounding. Sorry for poor characterization, too, now that I think of it.

A big thank you to everyone who reviewed!: PROKARIN-and-proud, Usagi Uchiha, pickingupstars, Elegant Spiral, and HeyThatsThatOneChick. You all left me such lovely reviews, I almost cried. Hope I didn't disappoint. Also, thanks to everyone who faved and alerted this story!

**Also, PROKARIN-and-proud is amazing! He/she guessed which Emily Dickinson poem the title came from, and as a reward will receive a one-shot from me with a prompt of his/her choosing. Congrats, PROKARIN! Get back to me soon on what you'd like. :)**

Finally, I won't be updating this story for the rest of the week, since I have three other stories that need to be updated. Next week will probably have another update, though. Maybe. Not making promises. Anyways, that's it. Sorry for horrendously long A/N.


	4. Crop Circles in the Carpet

**A Perished Sun**

**By**: The DayDreaming

**Warnings**: Language. OOC-ness. Many grammatical errors and inconsistencies. Pointlessness, but not really?

_This chapter has not been beta'd or checked for mistakes. If you feel there are any glaring errors besides my poor vocabulary and grammar, feel free to point it out and I'll do my best to assuage the situation._

**

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Chapter 4**: Crop Circles in the Carpet

**~o.O.o~**

America is taking too long to get in the pool.

Prussia sighs and allows himself the simple pleasure of slipping through the hole in his inner tube, folding in half and curling inwards, a slow descent to the bottom. He can remember being like this, once upon a time. The sensation of submersion, but by something wholly more transcendental than chlorinated water and gravity.

It's not so much a memory as an imprint, stamped into his bones like a sear; but it doesn't matter what it is. Even as he lets his mind drift back to the beginning, the pinnacle of light that sparked his almost eternal life, there is a fog that overtakes his mind like a funeral shroud, making him shudder and gasp for breath.

He takes in water and gags, trying to let a garbled curse fall from his lips as he kicks his feet into the smooth tile of the pool-floor and pushes upwards. He breeches the surface a second later and spits out a gob of saliva-riddled water, a steady stream pouring out his nose. Even as he's wiping his eyes free he can see America off to the side, an unsurprising but no-less dorky pair of American-flag swim trunks slung about his waist, looking about to slide off.

America guffaws, a large beach ball held loosely in his arms slipping free and falling into the pool like a small behemoth. Prussia paddles over and quickly picks it up, lugging the projectile at the other's head and knocking him over as his feet slide on the wet cement of the patio. He lands with a smack, remaining down as Prussia pulls himself up with a slosh from the pool, cackling as Tony taps over on his spindly legs and lifts America's head, examining the patch of raw, bleeding skin.

"Fucking kraut," it mutters, placing America's head back down and glaring at the Prussian.

"Shouldn't have been laughing at the awesome me, _fremd_. Seriously, who gets knocked out by a ball?" Prussia cackles again as he goes to poke the alien's own American-flag-esque trunks, though instead of fifty tiny stars there's a flying saucer inhabiting the navy square on its right hip. Tony quickly lifts his hand, twitching the tiny digits a bit before the forgotten ball lifts off the ground and slams into Prussia's bent head, sending him sailing back into the pool.

As Prussia surfaces, spluttering and coughing up water, Tony patters over to the edge of the pool, his diminutive shadow falling over the albino, and hisses, "You, fucking loser." The ball is slammed into Prussia's head once more.

"Pffft, oh god, Tony! That was great!" America is apparently conscious again, sitting up and holding out his fist, which Tony walks up and touches his own tiny hand to. A dribble of blood beads into the corner of his eye, but he ignores it in favor of picking himself up and sidling over to where Prussia leans idly against the side of the pool, glaring holes into the back of the foreign creature's cranium. "I think Tony likes you."

"Gee, really?" Prussia drawls, spitting a bit of leftover water onto the other's toes and flipping the alien off, who has taken to looking through the scope of what might be a water gun (but could also totally be something else) pointed directly at his left eye. "I think I'm warming up to him, too. You better watch out, or the awesome me might cause your buddy to disappear."

"Oh, well, if you want Tony to visit I'm sure he wouldn't mind! He loves traveling," America smiles and pulls up his trunks which have been steadily sinking down his hips into dangerous regions. Prussia watches the act and traces the thin lines of bones as they protrude.

America has always been well-built, exuding a power from his frame as easily as breathing air, though never really brawny, not to the extent that those like West and Russia are. He still resembles a teenager, after all. It leaves Prussia to wonder how someone like America could grow up from a little settlement in Jamestown, tiny and insignificant, to a strapping adolescent. It was an obscene growth rate that few countries ever experienced, and perhaps for a good reason, since America's mind most definitely hadn't progressed as fast as his body, leaving him as but a small child stumbling around in a cruel, adult-filled world.

But, he's still brilliant, even now, isn't he, Prussia thinks, catching the gleaming of the sun across the other's skin, a fine gold dust that makes his hair shine and eyes glow. Even as the others are loath to admit it, even as he is, America is beautiful by Nation-standards, vast and filled with untapped resources, vibrant and full of life and people.

Or, he used to be. That vitality he was so famous for only comes in short bursts these days, though the others don't seem to notice, not as America sleeps through meetings in the back of the room and mumbles through the majority of his speeches. Even now, Prussia can see the shoulders slump and the eyes blink tiredly. Where once there was muscle and fat to fill him out, now there is but the leanest sinews of flesh and hard bone to support him. The skin is pale from a lack of exposure to the sun and his hair has dulled and thinned.

It's startling to realize, and Prussia can't keep himself from staring as America walks backwards a few steps, then runs forward for a quick cannonball into the pool. He's been clever about hiding it, wearing thick clothes and extra layers, concealer under his eyes and heavy doses of caffeine-riddled energy drinks.

"Yo, America," he calls out, paddling over as the other nation rises from the depths.

"Yeah," he replies, shaking his stringy hair from his eyes, longer than usual and due for a cut.

"You been eating anything? You look like a stick."

America instinctively covers his chest and looks down, the water magnifying and warping his figure. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, then tries to wipe the glasses for good measure, though that only uselessly smears water over the lenses. He huffs and tosses the glasses over to Tony, whom is diligently inflating another inner tube off to the side but deftly catches the spectacles with practiced ease.

"You don't like it?" America twists around and tries to catch a glimpse of his back. "You guys always were complaining about how fat I was getting. Thought it would at least make people happy."

Prussia snorts and tries to push aside the faint memories of poking at America's love handles and laughing in his face, "Not the point."

"Isn't it?" America smiles that ugly, thin-lipped smile and stares intently at his hands, blue and illuminated by reflections on the surface, winding like snakes. His eyes look far away, and as he moves to see into Prussia's eyes, he can't help but get the feeling that America is looking at someone else entirely. "…I'm not really hungry that much nowadays anyway. So it doesn't really matter."

"What kinda lame-ass answer is that?" Prussia grouses, slapping his hand across the surface of the pool, sending a wave of water to slap America in the face. "Fucking pussy."

America whines and slaps more water back, creating a mini-tidal wave that engulfs the smaller nation and sends him tumbling away to the end of the pool. Even if America is thin, his supernatural strength hadn't faded in the least.

"My country's just going through a bunch of policy changes right now. It'll pass in time, alright? Happy now?"

"Yeah, whatever," Prussia mutters, tipping his head over and draining water from his ears.

From there, Tony finishes prepping two other inner tubes, and tosses them into the pool. The little alien levitates into a kiddie-sized tire with a glass of sweet-tea in hand, and as it floats by, hands America two water guns, which the nation promptly puts to use against his fellow swimmer.

Prussia forgets about too-thin fingers and tired eyes that look to a place beyond comprehension, and focuses on the glorious light of afternoon and the golden gleam that radiates from America as he shoves his head underwater and declares personal war.

* * *

America floats in the middle of the pool, body bobbing along to the waves formed from Prussia's splashing around as he putters about the deep end, towing Gilbird along on her own personal float made of a plastic boat with balloons tied to its sides.

He's been quiet for a while, resting from his earlier exertions. Prussia paddles over, looks at his slightly reddened face, and then taps his nose, "Hey, you alive?"

America flutters his eyes but otherwise doesn't move, giving a non-committal grunt. Disgruntled, Prussia pushes down on the other's chest, but the low, dark muttering of the tiny alien that happens to be passing behind steadies him to just holding his hand over his heart.

The organ beats heavily under his fingers, a steady campaign. America grunts again, allowing his eyes to fall open, alight as they look at him, then flick upwards. He smiles, and Prussia finds himself thinking of days spent at home, Germany at his knee reading a book.

The boy's lips move, mouthing a question, but all he can see is Ludwig asking if Prussia will always be there for him, stay with him, be with him….

America's brow crinkles, "Prussia…?"

He blinks, looks down to see that the nails of his hand are digging into America's chest. He hastily removes the digits and barks out, "What?"

"Jeez, no need to get testy…," America mutters, tearing his attention away from the other. The look on the other's face had scared him; he can't tell what exactly he had been seeing, but it most certainly isn't him. He glances back to the sky, and asks, "You ever just, get in the water and feel like you never want to come out? Like, it's where you belong?"

Prussia stares at him, watches as the other lifts his arm and grabs for the sky, reaching reaching reaching. He wonders what the other is looking for, and if once upon a time he had found it in a place beyond the Earth.

He snorts, "Of course not," and shoves America's head down to the bottom. Tony whaps him on the head with a Styrofoam noodle.

* * *

The town's annual Fourth of July picnic is as he would expect from America: loud, colorful, full of food, and with piss-worthy beer.

He nurses his canteen of imported liquor, found at the back of America's refrigerator, probably from a party held long ago. It tastes awful, but he won't complain when he's left with no other choice, America saying that he doesn't keep a stash of moonshine, or have any Jägermeister, or keep beer in general. Who cares if America is physically three years too young to consume alcohol in his country, and had prohibited himself since 1984? The little wimp needs to man up.

America is off with a group of children and supervising parents, waving around sparklers and generally being dog-piled by toddlers wanting piggy-back rides and to be spun around. He snorts at the sight when America topples over, losing his burnt-out sparkler as he rolls down-hill. Tony mutters off to the side of him, a thick blue hoodie concealing his thin frame while a pair of sunglasses rests precariously on his smooth face, taped to the sides of his head. He looks like a doll, and Prussia can't help but shake his head at the stupidity of bring an extraterrestrial into a crowded area.

When America had explained it to him, tearing pieces of tape from a roll while Tony held the glasses in place, he had burst out laughing. The pair had apparently been pulling the stunt with various disguises since the sixties, after Tony had complained about being left behind in the festivities (and again Prussia wonders how it is that Tony communicated this to America).

America runs up to them, out of breath but holding two plates of barbecue and various starchy vegetables and bread. He sets the food down in front of them, grinning to his ears, before pulling out a thin box of sparklers and a lighter.

"Stop looking like such a grump and set some stuff on fire, 'kay?" he pants, before darting off to rejoin his group of young admirers.

Tony moves beside him and grabs a plate, shoveling food into his mouth while trying to hide behind Prussia's back. He can't bring himself to complain when he tastes America's food; even if he sucks in all other areas of life, America and his citizens of Southern influence certainly know how to do barbecue.

Sated and content to try and subtly set Tony's hoodie on fire while the alien waves around the proffered sparklers, Prussia finds himself enjoying just sitting still and watching others celebrate. The feeling of laziness wraps around his chest, and though something in him says it is distinctly un-awesome to sit out of the festivities, he finds he can't really care. The day hasn't been unpleasant; though he's used to America's birthday bashes being filled with loud, annoying nations fighting and nagging at each other, then promptly falling flat on their faces from spiked punch, or making out with the nearest available body (passed out or otherwise, and usually already violated by Francis), this type of quiet, domestic celebration isn't as bad or boring as he'd thought it would be in the morning.

Just as he's about to grab a sparkler from his alien companion, the old speakers rigged up on poles down on the main picnic area crackle to life, sputtering with static before steadying as the speaker of the evening, probably the town mayor, recites a speech recounting what Prussia thinks might be a history of the town, or, for all he was paying attention, the memoirs of his wife's left foot on the old, rickety wooden stage. He rivets his eyes to the group of teenagers on the left of the speaker, one in particular clad in a baggy jacket with American-flag graphics printed onto the fabric and a pair of true, worn-out Levi's. He's grinning and waving to the crowd as the speaker hands over his microphone to what looks like the leading girl of the group.

A hush falls over the picnic area, families turning and standing to face the flag waving elegantly atop the rusted flag pole off to the side of the stage. Tony stands up beside him, stare intent as he holds one of his small hands over the left side of his chest. The speakers crackle again, the slightly jittery voice of the girl with the microphone issuing out, followed by the rising tenors of the gathered crowd as they recite America's pledge.

He wonders if the small alien considers itself a U.S. citizen, following along with all of America's traditions. From what he was told by America, the creature has been on the earth for almost eighty years, keeping America company in all of his different homes (which raises the question of just how many abodes the nation has). Could Tony have really pushed aside his heritage among the stars to be with his only friend?

Prussia doesn't stand, instead observing the proceedings like an uninterested third party, until the resounding silence left behind by the pledge is suddenly broken by the abrupt introduction of the Star-Spangled Banner by the group of teenagers on stage.

Among the cacophony of voices issuing from the old speakers, one rises above the rest, clear and absolute in its intensity, though for the humans standing about it seems like nothing special, drowned out as it is by the lead girl's stuttering soprano. It hits him like a wave, the voice of a nation as it sings its heart's anthem.

It is an irrefutable truth that nations can sing their anthems, and no matter how awful their voices are otherwise, for those songs that truly speak the soul of the country, they can sing in tones that touch the inner-most corners of their citizens' and other nations' hearts.

Prussia closes his eyes and listens to the voice of America, skimming past words and burrowing in to unearth the true emotion behind each sentence. _This is me this is me I'm right here._

And even beyond that, he can feel himself humming the strains of a song he was once able to freely sing before his people with the same vigor and strength as the nation in front of him. He can feel his mind ache, the sounds on his tongue fading and slipping out as a garbled mess of words and dialects. His memories bleed, growing blank and jumbled as his heart screams for release but the fabric of his being, that which ties him to the land that once held the seeds of the Teutonic Order, cry out to sing eight different songs.

_I am a Prussian,_

_Know ye my colors?_

**No.**

_Do you know my colors?_

**No.**

_My colors, my colors_

_What are my colors?_

**What are my colors?**

He can't breathe, throat locking up and swelling, but he'll try try try until he can't anymore, until the very last of him dies he'll hold the song of his knights and his kings and his people long dead and never utter the strains of foreign hymns.

"Fucking kraut."

Something smacks him in the head, wet but firm, and he finds he can swallow the sweet air of life once more. He opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) to see Tony glaring at him, holding a lighter and a sparkler stick. A sauce-slathered rib sits in his lap, staining his pants with sticky brown residue.

The little alien scowls and tosses the items aside, "If you didn't stop having a fucking seizure soon I was going to try and immolate your nose. Should have done it anyways on a stupid kraut like you…"

What the hell does 'immolate' even _mean_, Prussia wants to ask, but instead decides that it'd be good to punt the spiteful creature across the hill, and preferably over a cliff. Just as he gets up, America comes over the crest of the hill, panting again, but smiling as though he has the energy of a thousand suns.

"Did you see me?" he asks, straightening his flag-print jacket and hoisting up his sliding pants. "That fucking _rocked_!"

"Yeah, sure," Prussia snorts. "Still not as awesome as my anthem, but it's okay for a squirt like you."

America flips him off and flops to the ground, spreading his arms and legs out. Tony moves and lies down on America's side, resting his head against a splayed forearm and ripping the glasses from his red eyes.

"What are you doing?" Prussia asks, resisting the urge to kick his companions in the heads in a single shot.

"Fireworks," comes America's simple reply. Even as the words leave his lips, the lights lighting the park begin shutting off one by one, setting the world in waning twilight as the barest hints of sun leave the sky. Summer evenings in America last for hours, often not darkening until close to nine in the evening.

The first goes off with a startling bang, a large red spray filling the sky as jubilant shouts fill the air, picnickers spreading out to try and find the best view of the spectacle. Some migrate over to Prussia's and America's hill, and he idly wonders if they'll spot Tony, but realizes that the nuisance looks exactly like a doll cradled in America's arm.

Another firework goes off, shattering the sky in blue fire. Prussia decides that now is as good a time as any, and goes back to the tree where he's hidden America's present in a small hollow. He brushes the dirt off and flings the square package at America's head, managing to smack the blond in the forehead and upset Tony's place as the other nation yelps and sits up.

"What the hell was that for?" America sputters out, rubbing his forehead, fingers skimming past the patchy scab caused by his earlier fall at the pool.

"It's your present, runt. From the _awesome_ me, West, and Italy. The cute one, not the really crabby one that's always bitching at Antonio. And it's mostly from the awesome me, 'cause I'm that amazing," Gilbert rambles, scratching the back of his neck and looking away. He can't explain why he always feels nervous handing out gifts. No one ever really appreciates the gifts he gives them, though some might say that getting a 'totally awesome look at his five meters' isn't necessarily a gift, but a curse that steadily eats away at one's eyes and mind.

America grunts and lifts the box, beginning to peel the messy wrapping paper away to see heavily taped cardboard flaps. Tony sits up next to him, looking at America before glancing at the box, then back to America. America laughs and shakes his head, "No, we can't set it on fire! What if it's like a hamburger or something?"

Tony snorts and begins to help remove the tape, until at last the box is bared. By the rapidly increasing lights of the fireworks overhead, America lifts out new bomber jacket, custom-made to mimic the style of his old G-1 flight jacket.

He's quiet as he holds the article of clothing out, staring at it in the white glare of the smoky sky, mouthing words that Prussia can't decipher and allowing his thumbs to run over the thick wool of the collar. He looks lost, staring at a map with unintelligible words and a lost key.

Prussia wonders if he's maybe done something wrong and tries to feel out the situation, "You, uh…I noticed you haven't worn your old jacket in years, so I told Italy and he said that he'd ask one of his designers to recreate it. There are a couple things missing, I guess, but it's fucking close enough, right?"

"Y…yeah, close enough," America chokes out. Before Prussia can realize what's happening, America has swept him up in his arms, lifting him off the ground in a tight embrace that pushes the breath from his lungs.

"H-hey, get the hell off the awesome me!" he protests, but allows himself to dangle in the other's arms. Even if it's uncomfortable and degrading, it feels…nice, to be held by another. Once upon a time, he could do this with Ludwig, too.

A few seconds later finds him released and on his feet, America quickly swiping his arm across his eyes and smiling, "How'd you know I needed a new one? My old one fell apart on me a while ago."

"Well, duh, nothing goes unnoticed by the awesome me!" he smirks and thumps his chest, feeling the wham of explosions as they burst in blooms above their heads. America grins wider, his Hollywood-worthy smile shining in the night.

Tony still wishes he could shove a sparkler up the albino's nose.

* * *

Aaaaaand, cut! Whoo, are we done? Goodness that was awful. I could not bring myself to write this chapter. But, as filler as it might seem, a couple of important points have been brought up, though what these points are you'll have to find out later.

**

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TIME FOR SOME COMPLETELY USELESS INFORMATION ABOUT THE CHAPTER!**

**National Minimum Drinking Age Act of 1984**: passed on July 17th, 1984. This act made it a requirement for all states in the United States of America to legislate and enforce the minimum drinking and purchasing age for alcohol-imbibers to be 21 years old, or face a ten percent decrease in its annual federal highway apportionment under the Federal Highway Act. So, yeah. All the authors writing APH fanfiction where America is consuming alcohol on his own soil, uh, it's illegal. XD I don't think America would break his own laws. Just, y'know, saying. As fun as drunken funtiems are, there will be none here. :O

**Barbecue**: One of the prides and joys of the Southern United States. Yes, Virginia is considered 'southern'. Texas-style barbecue is what most people think of when they hear American barbecue outside of the U.S., though this is a misnomer, since they label it that despite whatever style they're using. There are an incredible amount of regional variations for barbecue, different for each state. I won't go into specifics, but I just wanted to acknowledge the Southern US readers out there. ;) Being from Florida, I'm in the sphere of influence, and though I actually don't like barbecue sauce, I do enjoy me some grilled meat, with a light coating of garlic (I bet all of you just cringed). :D

**Pledge of Allegiance**: If you really need me to explain this, then I have to wonder what rock you've been under.

**The Star-Spangled Banner**: the national anthem of the United States of America. Made from a popular poem based on the Battle of Fort McHenry, in the War of 1812 (I bet some of you thought it was about the Revolution!), and set to the tune of a popular British drinking song, this ditty was adopted as our official anthem in 1931. The Star-Spangled Banner is notoriously hard to sing due to its wide range, which sits at an octave and a half (ahaha whatever that means). If you don't have a rangy voice, uh, please don't try.

**I am a Prussian, know ye my colors?**: The "Preußenlied," or "Song of Prussia," was the Kingdom of Prussia's national anthem from 1830-1840. It was succeeded by "Heil dir im Siegerkranz," though this anthem never really caught on, and was eventually left behind after the fall of the German Empire. Taken from Wikipedia: _Because almost all Germans east of the Oder were expelled after World War II, the "Preußenlied" is sometimes sung by refugee organizations, such as the Territorial Association of East Prussia. It is also sometimes sung by far right extremists._ I chose this as Prussia's anthem since it's still somewhat popular today, and I like the lyrics. :)

First strophe:

_1. I am a Prussian , do you know my colours? _(as an aside, I do prefer 'Know ye my colors,' so that's the line I used.)

_the flag floats black and white before me;_

_that for freedom's sake my fathers died ,_

_to that , know it , hint my colours._

_Never will I trembling quail,_

_as them will I dare._

_Be it a rainy day, be it cheerful sunshine ,_

_I am a Prussian , want nothing to be but a Prussian.:|_

**Eight different songs**: After being annexed, Prussia was divided into zones of occupation along with the rest of Germany. Today, its land has been divided into parts of 8 different countries: Germany, Poland, Russia, Lithuania, Denmark, Belgium, Czech Republic, and the Netherlands. Hence, 'eight different songs' means the anthems of those countries.

**G-1 flight jacket**: one of the most iconic flight jackets of the U.S., alongside the A-2. G-1 was extremely popular, and had to be discontinued because of its high demand (weird, right?). From my very limited research, it appears that Himaruya drew America with the G-1 jacket, since it's the one with the wool collar that we all know and love, while the A-2 only has a leather collar. :) I of course am only guessing. Feel free whine at someone else, because I could honestly care less.

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So, uh. I'M REALLY SORRY FOR SUCH A CRAPPY CHAPTER! I can feel the quality of my writing deteriorate, so I know it must be painful for you readers. :( Also, sorry for taking so long. My birthday was on July 21st (I'm 18 now, yay being able to vote!), and I was going to update all of my fics on that day, but it turns out my Katekyo Hitman Reborn! chapter took a buttload more time than I expected (it clocks out at a whopping 11,500 words), and then from there I was busy getting ready for college. I'll try to get the next chapter out in a timelier manner, with hopefully better quality.

**ALSO**: I now have a LiveJournal account! :D Over there, my username is "eram_quod_es". I'm not really part of anything yet, but I'll eventually migrate my work over there, and post my one-shots over there first before putting them on here. Feel free to pop by, 'kay?

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story! You've all left me such beautiful reviews, I really can't express how much I'm grateful for it! Thanks also to all anonymous reviewers. Please know that I reply to all reviews (or at least try to!), so don't hesitate to sign in. :) Well that's all. Sorry for the crappy update, I'll try and make it better next time.


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